Come Break My Heart Again

by C. W. Farnsworth

  “They have limited resources, Dad. You know as well as I do, they wouldn’t have taken his case if they didn’t think there was a good chance.”

  My father raises his eyebrows in an expression that has made many a person shirk. Including me. It’s a clear you’re-an-absolute-idiot-for-thinking-that look. But the same insensibility that has encompassed me ever since I answered my phone earlier makes me impervious to it right now.

  I stand, feeling a twinge of pain in my feet. I hope the burst of feeling is not indicative of a larger wave of emotion coming. But I can feel the tide rising, and it seeps into my voice.

  “You should have told me, Dad.”

  Indifference and I are rapidly parting ways.

  “It’s been seven years, Eleanor. You’re engaged. Leave that boy and his mistakes in the past.”

  My father’s a rational man. Who thinks things through and balances options. Ordinarily, I think most people would describe me similarly. He’s right. It’s been seven years since I let Ryder James infiltrate my life. A length of time much longer than most people would deem necessary to get over a high school fling.

  But Ryder James has always been my what if. That niggling thought in the back of my head. When I graduated from high school. When I moved out of my parents’ house. When I graduated college. When I moved into my own apartment. When I graduated law school. When I said yes to William last night. The path that could have sent me careening in a very different direction had the night of the Homecoming football game ended differently.

  “I’m not going to make it to the dinner tonight,” I inform my father.

  “What do you mean, you’re ‘not going to make it to the dinner tonight’?” he asks, a note of warning clear in his voice. “It’s your engagement party! Your mother has been—”

  “I won’t be there, Dad.”

  I start toward the door.

  “Eleanor, don’t you dare…”

  I slam the door to his office shut behind me, and it’s the first time since the woman from the nonprofit said Ryder’s name that I feel a bit better. Finally, one when I really need it.

  The small burst of satisfaction fades as I walk down the hall lined with secretaries staring at me. I guess they took the amount of time I spent in my father’s office as a sign I am in fact, allowed to be here, because no one is attempting to call security and force my exit from the floor to proceed any more quickly. I could really care less either way. I’m more focused on how I just decided I’m spending my afternoon, instead of preparing for the dinner I know my mother has been organizing for months.

  I have no idea how my parents will explain my absence from the celebration of my engagement to William York, and I don’t really care. There’s only one person I feel any guilt about missing it toward. But even picturing William’s disappointed face is not enough to alter my plans. I take a few deep breaths as I step in the elevator and whizz back down to the lobby.

  As I walk across the marble floor, I pull my phone out of my pocket. I inhale deeply, and then press his name.

  “How’s my fiancée?” William answers on the second ring.

  I smile, but it quickly fades. “Hey,” I reply. “I’m good. But I have to tell you something, and you’re not going to be very happy about it.”

  “Okay…” William replies, understandably apprehensive.

  “I can’t make it to our dinner party tonight,” I rush out.

  “What? Why not?” There’s some irritation and indignation now.

  I’ve never lied to William before—not about anything important, at least—and I’m surprised by how easily the fibs fall off my tongue. “That firm in California called. They want me to come out for an interview first thing tomorrow. I have to leave tonight.”

  William sighs, but there’s no anger anymore. Work is something he understands. My actual destination is something he would not. “I thought you said you only applied there on a whim.”

  “I did. But it’s good to keep options open. You’d be willing to move to the West Coast, right?”

  He’s not. William’s father works on the floor I just left, two doors down from mine. I know it’s been William’s dream to follow in his father’s footsteps at the same firm since childhood. William seems to genuinely want the exact things his parents want for him. I wish I could say the same. It would make my life a hell of a lot easier.

  “We can talk about it if you get the job,” William finally responds.

  “Okay.” I don’t push it. I haven’t actually gotten an interview, much less the job. Even if I did, I resigned myself to living in Massachusetts a long time ago. The same way I’ll probably end up working at my father’s firm, no matter how many other positions I get offered.

  “I’m sorry. I know it’s terrible timing,” I add. “I’ll make it up to you when I get back.”

  “It’s fine, I know last night was a surprise. Let me know when you’re there. I love you.”

  “Love you, too.” I hang up, swamped with guilt. I’m a terrible person. Or a terrible fiancée, at the very least.

  I hail a cab and finally respond to some of the messages littering my screen. I feed Brooke, Avery, and Maddie the same lie I told to William. It doesn’t really explain why I fled the cafe before I’d even entered it, but none of them seem concerned about that particular detail. They all respond with excitement and palm tree emojis that prompt fresh waves of guilt. But it’s not enough to keep me from exiting my messages and opening up my contacts.

  “Hey, Eleanor!” Jessica answers on the very first ring.

  “Hi, Jess. How are you feeling?”

  “Ugh,” she groans. “Morning sickness is still all-day sickness. I’m going to be a bit of a wet blanket at Eliza’s bachelorette party, I’m afraid.”

  “It’s Eliza. Things won’t be that crazy, anyway.”

  “We’re going to Vegas, Eleanor. I’ve seen The Hangover.”

  I laugh.

  “So… what’s up?”

  “I need a favor.”

  “Okay…”

  “Are you still good at digging stuff up?”

  “Oh my god! Something to actually do! Yes, I’m still a fantastic internet stalker. What do you need?”

  I pause, glancing at the cabbie and then back out the busy street. “I need to know where an inmate is being held. Which prison.”

  There’s silence on the other line. “Okay, not what I thought you were going to ask for,” Jessica finally replies. “Is this the same Eleanor Clarke I met at freshman orientation who was wearing a floral headband and a pressed blouse?”

  “It’s for a pro bono case I’m helping out on.” Lying seems to be one of those things that gets easier the more you do it.

  “Oh, okay. Yeah, that’s easy. What’s the prisoner’s name?”

  “Ryder James.” My voice is thicker than usual, and I hope it doesn’t translate over the line.

  “Do you know the middle name?”

  “Jordan.”

  “Okay. I’ll call you back when I have it.”

  “Thanks.” I hang up and resume staring out the window, glad she didn’t ask any more questions. Specifically, what he’s in prison for.

  A few minutes later, the cab pulls up in front of the brownstone I’ve called home since graduating college three years ago. I pay the cabbie and head up the front steps. I can hear Scout scrambling around inside as soon as I shove my keys in the lock.

  Last summer, I was walking along the Charles with Brooke when we came across a foster pet fair. I’d never considered myself an animal person. I didn’t grow up with pets. But something about one furry face made me stop. I told myself—along with a dubious William and friends—that I was only going to foster the puppy until a forever home came along. But when the shelter told me they were getting some interest, I told them I was keeping him rather than handing him back over. A year later, it’s hard to imagine my life without the Australian Shepard mix.

  Scout pounces as soon as I get the door open, ba
rking joyfully as he leaps and runs around me. I’m rarely home in the middle of the day, and he’s making his appreciation for my early return known. I drop to the floor, rather than venture further into the entryway, letting him sit in my lap and tilt his furry head back to lick my face.

  “Hi, buddy,” I scratch the spot behind his ears that always makes him pant with happiness. “Miss me?” He barks.

  I got Scout when he was only a few months old, but I’m guessing he had a rough start to life, because he’s incredibly wary of people. I seem to be the only person he actually likes. He barks at strangers—along with people he’s been around a lot, like William—until I tell him not to. He still won’t let anyone else pet him for any extended length of time. I got plenty of gentle suggestions I let him go to a new home after first announcing I’d decided to keep him, but everyone seems to have finally accepted the fact he’s here to stay. I’m more attached to him than I ever imagined being to a canine.

  “Come on.” I stand to head up the stairs, and he trots after me.

  I’m halfway through packing an overnight bag when Jessica calls me back.

  “What sort of case are you working on?” she asks as soon as I answer.

  Crap. “Uh—I don’t know all the details yet. I just joined it,” I reply.

  “Well, the guy you asked about is at Pennfield. The only maximum-security prison in the state. Not a nice place.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  “No problem. It was easy to find. Much more exciting than staring at a blank page.”

  “Writing not going well?”

  “Nope. I’m starting to think all the people who laughed at me when I told them I was going to write a book had a point.”

  “Maybe our trip to Vegas will spark some creativity. You could write a book about a murder at a casino or a hidden message in the slot machines.”

  There’s a scratching sound in the background, like pen scrawling across paper. “Oooh, that’s good. Maybe you should use your Harvard degree for a creative cause, too. Your imagination is lost on writing legal briefs.”

  I let out a dry laugh. “Yeah. Maybe. See you next weekend.”

  “Bye, Eleanor.”

  I finish packing and then am faced with the dilemma of what to wear. I end up changing out of the sundress I put on this morning into a pair of dark skinny jeans and a peach colored blouse. And flats. My feet are officially killing me. I grab my trench coat out of the hall closet, and then set about gathering all of Scout’s necessities. It’s a testament to how little regard anyone in my life has for him that no one bothered to ask what I planned to do with Scout during my West Coast trip. If I really were going to California, I’d have to take him to a kennel. But despite Boston’s location on the easternmost side of the state, it’s impossible to remain within the boundaries of Massachusetts without driving less than three and a half hours. An easy drive for a dog to join on. Plus, I could really use the emotional support.

  I transport Scout and our combined luggage outside and into my silver sedan. It’s a beautiful day, and I think nostalgically of Betty. The red convertible got traded in when I left for college.

  I Google the address for Pennfield, and it pops up immediately. It’s a three-hour drive, clear on the opposite side of the state. I start the directions, turn on the radio, and begin driving. Weaving along the brick street I live on and then through the bustling city takes some concentration, but pretty soon there’s nothing but a clear stretch of asphalt stretching before, which doesn’t take any brainpower to navigate. I’m stuck with my thoughts as brown trees fly by, dotted with green leaves just beginning to emerge as spring prepares for summer. Stuck reliving things I’ve tried really hard to forget.

  After Ryder’s arrest, I immediately left Fernwood to finish high school at the boarding school I attended before my father ran for Fernwood’s school committee. Then off to college. Then I went to law school. All were fresh, clean starts. I made a concerted effort to spend as little time in Fernwood as possible during breaks and summers. My childhood friends never brought him up. My parents wouldn’t either. The few reminders Ryder exists are the ones I’ve allowed in. The charity I started. The scholarship I allocated. The memories I’ve thought about often enough to know they’re perfect recollections.

  I turn the music up for a Taylor Swift song but switch the radio off entirely when “Kiss Me” begins to play. I still can’t listen to that song without being reminded of the night in the garage with Ryder.

  Scout is snoring in the backseat, completely oblivious to the inner turmoil I’m experiencing. I feel like it’s a low point when you’re jealous of a dog’s life, but I’m definitely envious of Scout’s right now.

  It starts to drizzle two hours into the drive, coating the asphalt with a constant sprinkling of water. I press down on the gas pedal a little harder. Civilization continues to give way as I near the base of the Berkshires. The roadside attraction signs cease showing anything unrelated to nature. Rest areas grow further and further apart. The navigation system informs me to take the next exit. Dread and anticipation swirl in my stomach as I follow its instructions. Overgrown greenery lines the road that leads to the prison. I drive less than a mile before I don’t need the directions any longer. It’s pretty obvious where my destination is.

  The prison complex is plopped in the middle of a wide circle of cleared land that spills outside the tall, imposing fence that surrounds the collection of buildings. I drive through an open gate coated with barbed wire into a parking lot comprised of cracked cement, stopping just to the right of a gray metal door with faded white letters reading VISITOR ENTRANCE. That’s me, I guess. There’s only one other car in the lot; a Chevy so coated with mud it’s impossible to tell what the paint color is.

  I crack a window for Scout and step out of my car, shrugging my trench coat on. It’s a lot cooler on this side of the state. The combination of the nearby mountains and earlier rain has saturated the air with a clean, pure scent that seems out of place so close to what is without a doubt the most depressing-looking building I’ve ever seen. It suddenly strikes me how the three years of schooling I just completed provided me with the power to sentence someone to spending a significant length of time here.

  I cross the lot and pull open the gray door, stepping inside the building tentatively. The crisp air is replaced by a stale, stagnant scent that suggests the residents of the building don’t have much, if any, chance to appreciate the fresh air outside. For some reason I expected to step into a hallway lined with cells, but the tiny lobby I emerge inside reminds me of a police station. Or a hospital. There’s a short stretch of orange plastic chairs along one wall. Above it are framed posters listing the long array of items one can’t bring into a prison. A tall series of shelves covers the other. Books fill them, which surprises me. They’re an eclectic collection: in shape, color, and condition.

  “Can I help you?”

  I turn my gaze to the desk on the far side of the room, which isn’t saying much. It only takes me a few steps to reach the edge of it. Or as close to the edge as I can get, rather. There’s a tall, thick wall of impenetrable glass entirely surrounding the tired, middle-aged woman seated behind the desk. A few scratches and scrapes mar the surface, suggesting someone did in fact try to get past it. A metal detector sits to the right.

  “Yes, I’m here to visit someone,” I tell her.

  “Name?”

  “Eleanor Clarke.”

  “The inmate’s.”

  “Oh. Ryder James,” I reply. It’s a little less weird every time I say his name, but the syllables still feel strange on my tongue.

  “No visitors.”

  “Are the hours over?” I pull my phone out of my pocket. It’s quarter of five. Do prisons follow the same schedule as convenience stores? “I can be out of here by five, if that’s the problem.”

  “That inmate isn’t accepting visitors. That’s the problem, ma’am.”

  “Oh.” That possibility hadn’t occurr
ed to me. “Why is that?”

  The woman snaps her gum as she shrugs. “Above my pay grade. I just do what the computer tells me to.”

  “Is there someone I could speak to who might know?”

  “No.” She turns back to the computer screen.

  “Are you sure? It’s very important that I speak to him. I came a long way.”

  “I’m sure.” She still doesn’t look at me.

  “Please.” I spent the entire drive fixated on seeing Ryder. Panicking. Planning. The possibility I wouldn’t be able to never occurred to me.

  The woman finally glances my way. I shift under her scrutiny. She’s got the clear air of someone who deals with a lot of unpleasant encounters and is generally expecting unpleasantness as a result. “There’s nothing I can do except give you some friendly advice.”

  “Advice?” On how to visit an inmate?

  “You seem like a nice enough lady.” She gives my expensive clothes a pointed look. “This isn’t a place you happen to stop by. A place you should stop by if you can help it. And I’m not the only who thinks so, clearly.”

  “What?” I’m completely confused now.

  “Inmate you’re asking to see? Is not accepting visitors named Clarke.”

  I open my mouth, then close it again. “I’m on a list of people who can’t visit him?”

  “What I just said, isn’t it?”

  “Are there other people he’s not seeing?”

  She shakes her head.

  “So… that’s it?”

  “That’s it.” The phone rings. “Have a nice night.”

  She picks up the phone and starts speaking to someone, but I tune out their conversation. I stare as far down the dark hallway behind her as the fluorescent lights allow. Ryder is somewhere in this building. I drove over three hours to see him. And I can’t. Because he ensured I wouldn’t be able to.

  I leave the building in a daze. It’s started to sprinkle again, and Scout has his nose poked out of the slightly open window, sniffing at the raindrops. I climb back into the driver’s seat, and he climbs in the front so he can snuggle in my lap. We sit there together.